Osbert turned to look at him, and his free fist clenched as though to swing at Wattere’s face. It was enough to make Wattere want to flinch, but the effort was too great. Then, to his astonishment, he was dropped on the ground. All the feeling returned. He was no longer floating; now he was forced back to reality. He felt soil in his mouth, and rolled over, whimpering with the pain, as he prepared himself for the boot that would slam into his body.
He heard a bellow of rage, and as he tried to look towards Osbert, he saw the other guard’s head lift from the man’s torso on a fountain of blood. Osbert had his sword clenched in his hand, and a look of maniacal joy on his face as he withdrew, carefully stepping back out of the light and into the smoke and fury of the fire.
It was enough for Wattere. He allowed his head to fall back and slipped away from consciousness.
Simon urged his horse on with spurs and reins, aiming straight for the smoke-filled gap that was the gateway, aware of Baldwin at his side, knowing that Edgar was a short way behind. As he slammed into the roiling smoke, he tried to catch a breath to scream a war cry, but the thick fumes burned down his throat and into his lungs, and he was forced to hack and cough until he reached a patch of daylight. He saw Sir Robert, and put his hand to his sword hilt even as he set his beast for the man.
Sir Robert was no coward, but nor was he a fool. A man on horseback had an advantage over a man on foot. He shoved past the other men to reach the front door of his hall, and would have slammed it closed, but Simon threw himself from his mount and hit the door as it was closing. It lurched open, and Simon was inside with Sir Robert. The knight pulled out his own sword, a longer one than Simon’s, and instantly tried a stab, the steel coming wickedly close to Simon’s flank. He slashed at the blade with his own, knocking it away, and it seemed to waver as though the man’s arm was numbed. Simon saw Sir Robert’s eyes register pain and disbelief, but he didn’t trust him not to be acting to try to tempt Simon in more closely.
He decided to test Sir Robert, and made a feint, stabbing in and withdrawing. The reaction was so swift, it would have sliced through Simon’s throat, a sweep around that then continued perhaps a little too far. It was beginning to move back already as Simon made his choice, and committed himself, hurling himself forward bodily, his right fist clenched about the hilt, clubbing at Sir Robert’s wrist. His left hand shot out and gripped the knight’s tunic at the neck, while he hammered again at the man’s hand with the steel pommel of his sword. Once, twice, and on the third vicious blow, Simon allowed his sword to continue a little further in its motion, so that the point was now under Sir Robert’s chin. He lifted it higher, so that it was close to penetrating his flesh, and at last Sir Robert swore and Simon heard the clatter of steel as the other man’s sword fell to the ground.
‘Shit, I yield!’
‘I should finish you now!’ Simon said from clenched teeth. ‘Where is she? Where is my daughter?’
‘Right here, master. Why, did you think we’d lost her?’ Basil said, and Simon turned to see Edith gripped by the neck, his sword resting on her perfect white throat, her eyes wide with utter terror.
If there had been more men here, Baldwin would have been more alarmed, but as it was, the majority of the guards and servants had been outside and defending the yard from the flames. None had a bow or gonne with them, and not many had so much as a sword. There were three or four who bore axes, but they had been so completely surprised that two had already been struck down, and the two remaining had hurriedly dropped their weapons.
Baldwin had seen Simon rush for the door to the hall, but before he followed, he went to the figure lying on the ground near the burning barn. ‘Well, this is a pretty sight,’ he murmured, looking at the gaping wound where Osbert’s sword had made its mark.
He peered around to look at the man’s face and was surprised to recognise him. ‘William atte Wattere,’ he breathed.
Standing, he saw the monk nearby, gazing about him with a pitiable expression of shock on his face. ‘Mark, brother, will you look after this fellow for me, please? He may be of some use to us.’
‘Will he live?’
‘Long enough, I hope, to feel the hangman’s rope about his neck. This is the evil character who kidnapped Simon’s daughter. Where he is, she will probably be near,’ Baldwin said. He wiped a little of the sweat from his brow. It was almost unbearably hot in the yard. The enclosing walls concentrated the heat, and turned the space into an oven.
About him he saw that Edgar and Sir Richard had herded all the men from the yard into one corner, and although there were some seventeen of them, the two men were nonchalant in the way they held their weapons. It was obvious that none of the men they had captured relished the prospect of throwing themselves at them.
Baldwin was content that the two could easily cope with the cowed guards, and hurried after Simon. He was about to rush in through the door when Simon appeared, walking backwards, his sword in the hands of Sir Robert de Traci. Baldwin swore under his breath, and would have run to conceal himself, but Sir Robert saw him and jerked his chin. ‘You too, Sir Keeper. Your sword on the ground now.’
‘No.’
Baldwin saw Simon’s agonised expression, but it would not affect him. He kept a firm hold on his weapon as two more figures appeared in the doorway: one was the one-eyed man, the other the knight’s son, who held in his hand Simon’s daughter.
‘Edith,’ Baldwin called. ‘Are you quite well? Have these men hurt you in any way?’
Basil taunted him with his response. ‘You think we’d have tainted the little wench? Nay, Sir Knight. She’s still unsullied, so far as we can tell. Who knows what she has been getting up to in Exeter while her husband’s away, though, eh? Good little rump on her, this filly. Have you seen the way she can jiggle it? Like two rats in a sack when she walks, by my faith! And those lovely titties. So entrancing. You want to try her? We haven’t damaged her yet, so if you want her, you may be able to—’
‘Basil, shut up,’ his father growled. ‘Sir Baldwin, I think I said you should put down your sword?’
Baldwin eyed him. He was too close to Simon for safety. Edith was close by the knight’s son, too, and she was in great danger. Basil’s sword lay across her throat, the sharpened blade touching her neck. She had a cloak on, loosely thrown over her shoulders, he saw, but the blade was above that. ‘Sir Richard, Edgar, do not drop your swords. Clear?’
‘Sir,’ Edgar responded.
Sir Richard grunted and kept tight hold of his own weapon.
‘There, Sir Robert,’ Baldwin said. ‘I feel we are at an impasse. I will not drop my sword, and you will not pass me to escape while I hold it.’
‘You will drop it, Keeper, because if you don’t, I shall tell my son to start removing pieces of that woman. Perhaps first we should see her shamed? Shall we strip her of all her clothing, Basil?’
Simon gave a tortured roar: ‘No!’
‘Oh? You prefer that we should gradually remove every finger?’
Simon turned to Baldwin. ‘They’ll kill her! You must throw down the sword, Baldwin. If you love me, old friend, please. I beg.’
‘Simon, I cannot. If we all give up our swords, they will kill us all. That will not aid Edith.’
‘What, you enter my castle, you have your accomplice burn my damned barns and stables, you rush my hall, and you say that I am the villain? Dear Christ in chains, you have a bold mouth on you, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Robert expostulated. The spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘I am here without harming any, and yet you do so much damage.’
‘We had no accomplice in your midst,’ Baldwin said.
‘No? That man who tried to destroy my castle wasn’t yours?’ he sneered.
‘No. He brought Simon’s daughter here to you, did he not? And you held her here. Perhaps you have seen her raped, treated shamefully, to satisfy your greed.’
‘My greed? You fool! Dear heaven, I call on you to witness this imbecile! The girl was to be kept
here safely, just so that pressure could be brought to bear on her father. That was all. There was a need.’
‘What need?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘To protect the realm. It was only to guard Devon against Mortimer in case he tried to invade from here. Who else causes so much trouble and fear?’
‘How would your holding Edith help guard Devon?’
‘Tavistock. If this girl’s father was anxious enough, it was thought that he would persuade the monks there to support the man who would be the stronger, more suitable abbot.’
‘So for that, to effectually play with the election of an abbot, you were prepared to hold a young woman indefinitely?’ Baldwin said. His contempt dripped from his voice. ‘And you killed all the men at the woods just in order to reap the profit?’
‘What men in the woods?’
Baldwin stared at him hard. ‘The men whose money was taken. Women and children, monks and guards. You killed them all.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I didn’t kill anyone and take their money. What, do you think I am a common felon?’
‘Not very common, no,’ Baldwin said.
Sir Robert gave a slanted smile. ‘Very well, I admit that we did tickle them up a little. But there was no money to steal. We spent long enough looking for the goddamned coin, but it wasn’t there.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘If I knew that,’ Sir Robert said with chilly certainty, ‘I would have brought it here. I didn’t, so I couldn’t. Now, enough of this bickering. Will you let me pass?’
‘No,’ Baldwin said. ‘Not with hostages. Either you give them up, or I will prevent you from leaving.’
‘Basil, you can remove her shift and tunic. Let us see what she is made of, eh?’ Sir Robert said.
But just then there was a howl from behind him, and Sir Robert spun, recognising the sound of his son’s voice.
‘No!’ Simon roared, and lunged. His left hand slapped at the blade, knocking it away, and he was at Sir Robert’s throat.
The knight had not expected so simple a manoeuvre, and he was forced to stagger backwards even as he saw his son lift his hands to his face, saw the blood gushing from his eye, heard the sword rattling on the ground, and saw the girl stoop, pick up the blade and thrust it into Basil’s body, just under his ribs, a loose, inaccurate stab that wouldn’t kill, but might hurt like blazes … and then he felt an odd, uncomfortable, dragging sensation in his breast, and found that there was a peculiar tingling in his knees and a hollowness in his belly. He slipped to the ground, staring dumbly at the oily sheen on his sword blade. There was something wrong about it, he was sure, and as he gazed down, he realised that the blade was protruding from his own chest.
He felt his head as an insupportable weight, bringing him forward, the mass of his body dragging him to the floor, but even as he felt his life leaching away into the stones, his face was turned to his son. His last thoughts were for Basil.
Roger was close to the walls when he saw a figure on a horse, and he swiftly thrust Agnes down behind him.
This was so much like the scenes he had witnessed in France. Smoke pouring from a homestead as men and women milled about, terrified in case they would be captured. Today, he had the idea that there would be more killing, from the look of the men who had ridden in so wildly.
The smoke was clearing a little now as most of the thatch and straw was gradually consumed, and soon there was only the reek of old wood and tar and leather burning. At least with that there was less thick smoke, though, and now Roger could peer through the wavy air to see the men beyond. Not that the view was very clear – he was sure he could see the men who had ridden into the place, all standing about with their weapons drawn, but now he could see the men from the house, arguing; he saw the girl turn, the flash of a weapon, and the man behind her screamed hoarsely and fell, even as the knight dropped his sword and another man snatched it up and stabbed once, with all his strength.
‘What is it?’ Agnes demanded.
‘I think this place is less of a threat now,’ Roger said. He stood and began to walk towards the castle, aware that Agnes was hurrying to keep up. In the gateway, he saw the men gathered over in the corner of the wall. As he entered, there was a flash of steel, and he found himself looking into the face of a man who could kill in an instant. It was the kind of face he had seen all too often in France.
‘Who are you?’
Roger said, ‘I am a sailor, on my way to Dartmouth. Nothing to do with these men, except a few days ago I saw them slay a farmer.’
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace. What are you doing here now? A man who witnessed a murder would not normally follow the murderer. He would run to the nearest bailiff or reeve to declare the crime.’
‘It occurred to me that finding a body in an area where I was unknown might not be conducive to a long life. I preferred to think that I could escape attention. But I thought it would repay me to follow some of these fellows and learn where they lived. Then I started to wonder where they were going, to see if they were attacking anyone else.’
‘You waited about here, by your admission, for some days, when you could have been hurrying to your ship? When, as you say, you feared that by remaining here you would be throwing yourself in increased danger?’
‘I am very public-spirited.’
Baldwin looked at him. ‘I don’t have time for this right now, but, friend, I will be speaking to you later. Who is this?’
Mark was still crouched at the side of Wattere in the midst of the ruin and savagery, and he looked up to see the woman at the gate. ‘She is the wife of the reeve who was murdered, Sir Baldwin,’ he said. He had dipped the hem of his robe in a horse trough, and was wiping Wattere’s face with it. ‘She is no threat to you,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Mistress, I am sorry about your loss,’ Baldwin said.
Agnes was walking like a woman in a dream. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
It was a strange dreamlike experience, being here in the courtyard with bodies lying nearby. She found her toe striking something that rolled, and looking down saw a man’s head, the eyes wide in surprise as they contemplated her, but there was no body beneath it. She carried on walking to where the young woman was sobbing, cradled in the arms of a much older man. At their feet was a young fellow, who rocked back and forth on his knees, wailing quietly, while blood trickled from between the fingers covering his face. Nearby there lay another man, who had a massive wound in his breast that was still slowly oozing blood on to the floor. There was no rage in his face, though, only surprise and a kind of wistfulness.
‘Is he the one?’ she asked.
Simon saw her, and although he could not relinquish his daughter, he nodded. ‘It’s Sir Robert, the man who owned this castle. I think he was the man who ruled those who killed your husband, Agnes. I am sorry.’
‘I am avenged,’ she said quietly, and then spat on the dead man’s face. ‘That is for my husband, a good man, a good father, and a good reeve.’
She turned on her heel, and was about to walk away from that hideous area, but the other woman’s misery called her back, and she went to her and put her own arms about her, looking at Simon as she did so. ‘Let me take her out of here,’ she said, and led Edith out of the courtyard, Simon following.
‘Simon,’ Baldwin said as Simon drew level with him. ‘I couldn’t let my sword go. You do understand that, don’t you? If I’d dropped my sword, they could have overwhelmed us in a moment, and it’d be us who were lying in the dirt instead of them. You understand that, don’t you?’
Simon looked at him, and Baldwin was shocked to see the resentment that burned in his eyes. ‘Tell me, Baldwin. If that had been your little Richalda, and I had refused to drop my sword, what would you have done then?’
Baldwin was silent for only a moment, but then he shook his head. ‘I would have agreed with you, Simon. It is impossible to surrender your weapons to men such as th
ese.’
‘You think so? Or would your friendship have turned to hatred and loathing, Baldwin?’
Chapter Thirty-One
Tavistock Abbey
In the cloisters, Brother Robert Busse was strolling thoughtfully when he heard his voice called.
Behind him, angrily stalking towards him, his black robes flying so great was his speed, came Brother John de Courtenay.
‘I suppose you think you are mighty clever!’ Brother John hissed.
‘Brother, I think nothing of the sort. However, I have done all I think I need to do to protect myself.’
‘Pah! Protect my arse! You think you’ll be safe from my fellows? You forget who you’re talking to, churl!’
‘Brother John, please, let us be calm.’
‘Calm? I’ve just spent an hour or more in the company of the precious cretin from the pope. You know what he said to me?’
‘He accused you of plotting my murder, I suppose.’
‘Yes … You gave him my notes?’
‘They were found on the messenger, and opened before it was realised quite what they were.’
‘I will not tolerate this, Robert. My family is the most important in the shire, and I swear, I’ll have the post here whether you’ll accept me or not, you understand? If you stand in my way, I’ll—’
‘Kill me? Oh, Brother John,’ Robert said. ‘If you do that now, you will never have this abbey. You don’t understand? We are both in the same position, my friend. If I take any more money or try to do anything else to win the seat, I will be barred from it.’
‘Good!’
‘And conversely, if I die, for whatever reason, whether it be a sudden apoplexy or an accidental fall down the night stairs to the choir, my friend, you will also never win the seat. We are both blocked.’
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 33